Shades
by peppersweet
Summary: Ariadne faces her recurring nightmare. One shot.


**a/n:** originally posted under the penname _tea and totems_, reposted to this account so I can keep everything in one place. Some dialogue in this fic is taken directly from the film _Inception_ and is thus property of Warner Bros. Enjoy!

* * *

I'm wondering just how I've ended up standing on the street corner when I see the murderer.

He's always the same; short, fairly stocky, well-built, a shadow of stubble around his jaw, although his facial features are blurred and indecipherable. I never have a chance to look at them. His clothes are always neutral, muted shades of blue, a loose collar showing a gold chain at his neck. His hands are in his deep pockets where I know he keeps a knife. His shoes are ferociously shined; I always see a blurry reflection of my face in them, in the end. That's how I know it's me.

The street is deserted. It is three in the morning. I don't know why I'm there. I don't have a bag, a phone, money, or keys – it's just me, dressed as if I was ready for college, standing on a street corner in the small hours of the morning. The murderer approaches from the other side of the road. I can't see his eyes, but I know he is staring at me. The streetlights cast narrow pools of light onto the sidewalk, pools that he slips in and out of every now and again on his way towards me. I look at my watch just to check it's actually three. If it were two, he might pass me by. But it's always three.

His shoes barely make a sound as he crosses the road. He seems to glide over the asphalt. I stare at him, hard as I can, frozen rigid, but I still can't see his face. That's when his hand comes out of his pocket, holding the knife. Casually. He walks up to me as if walking up to idly admire something at a shop window.

My legs are always locked. Invisible hands always clutch at my throat. I can never breathe, never move my limbs – I'm frozen, as if the murderer has a Medusa stare and has turned me to stone. I can feel the panic rising within me, building up, a scream ripping at the back of my throat, but I can never so much as blink to show that I'm scared. I'm solid, I'm stone.

He's staring at me. His gaze travels over me, the red cardigan I'm always wearing, the watch that still shows it's three am. The knife in his hand glints with reflected streetlight. I know he's going to take me, do unspeakable things, but I still can't move.

He just looks at me. I can almost read his thoughts. He's thinking about what he's going to do to me. But he's going to stab me first.

That's when I wake up.

* * *

'If we're sharing dreams, we need to make sure we're completely open with one another. Secrets, nightmares, anything you fear or have got to hide – we all need to know these things, otherwise we run the risk of compromising the mission. You need to make sure you're suppressing your subconscious anyway, but it helps I we can know in advance if any problems might come up.'

I'm only half-listening; Cobb has told me this already. I'm sitting at the edge of the group, feet propped up on a low table, a sketchbook and a sheet of graph paper on my lap. Five perfectly-sharpened pencils have been placed on the arm of the chair I'm sitting in, and another blunter pencil is in my hand. I'm finishing a plan of the second level to teach to Arthur.

'Are we going to run this like a therapy group?' Eames says, sounding incredulous. 'Sitting around and sharing our problems?'

'I'm not asking you to present to the team; it's your responsibility to tell them in your own time.'

'I've never seen this done in a mission before,' Eames says. 'Not even with you, Cobb, why the change of heart?'

'The dreams are more fragile, given how many levels we have…'

I start to shade parts of the plan; this particular page is the corridor of level five. From his seat next to mine, I can see Arthur casually trying to look at the half-finished plan.

'Subtle,' I murmur, turning myself around in the chair so he can't see the plan. He smiles and looks back to his own notebook; a page of meticulous handwriting.

'…this applies to all of us, I don't want anyone thinking they're above the rules. Moving on…'

Cobb reminds me of a teacher lecturing students. I think about my own secrets. None. Truthfully. I think of myself as an honest person. I'm not a criminal like the men around me. I don't think I have anything to share, apart from my recurring nightmare, the murderer locked inside my head.

* * *

I'm teaching Yusuf the first level, the only one I've managed to finish, when the topic of secrecy and openness comes up for the first time, three days after Cobb's lecture.

'I expect you'll want to be open like Cobb has asked,' he says, quite casually, still studying a model of the city.

'Pardon?'

'Cobb's request for us to share secrets and things that might affect the mission. In all honesty, I don't have much to share. I assume you know a lot of my secrets.'

'Oh, that. Do I?'

Yusuf puts down the model and stretches up, smiling. 'Of course. I suppose you know that the majority of my work is illegal. That isn't exactly a secret though, just something to keep quiet from the authorities.'

The request for us to share secrets already seems quite absurd, like something teenage girls would do. I smile too, putting down my plans.

'I don't think I have anything especially compromising either.' I say, but then I think of Cobb, his wife – and finally find something to tell Yusuf about. 'Except one thing, maybe. A recurring nightmare. He mentioned that?'

'He did.'

'It sounds very silly when I tell people about it. I have a recurring nightmare that I'm about to be stabbed, but I can't move. I'm stuck. I suppose that's all about fear – subconscious and all-'

'That's a usual one,' Yusuf says. 'I meet a lot of people in my work, and they all tell me about recurring dreams. I have one too, that I've spilled a chemical on my hands and I can't get it off no matter how hard I try, and it burns into my skin, like a strong acid.'

'That's natural, I guess, given your work.'

He nods. Our conversation seems to be conducted with an odd formality – odd given the intrusive nature of the questions. Yusuf picks up the model again, asking me a few questions about one of the streets. We've been open like Cobb has asked; the conversation is over.

* * *

A day later I have the same conversation with Eames, on something of a break from the tedious routine of drawing plans and gluing models together out of old cardboard. He's re-reading a book I recognise as the official dream-share manual, and from the handwritten notes on the pages I notice it's Arthur's.

'I suppose we should have that conversation about secrecy that Cobb's ordered,' Eames says, sounding a little bored. Since meeting him, I've always admired his direct way of talking. He seems instantly trustworthy, although I know he's the most deceitful of them all.

'Oh, that,' I say. 'I don't have secrets, really.'

'Really?' Eames says. 'How dull. You'll have to make some.'

'I don't exactly get the opportunity,' I smile.

'You'll have plenty of time once this mission's in the bag,' he says, shutting the book and setting it aside. 'But, really, nothing?'

'Only a recurring nightmare,' I tell him. 'It's probably nothing, but I figure that, if I'm letting you into my subconscious, I should probably warn you.'

'Go on.'

'It's just that I'm about to be stabbed, and I can't move or run away, no matter how scared I get or how much I panic. That's all. Not very exciting, I know.'

'Understandable,' he says, sounding like Yusuf did for a moment. 'I have one too. It's petty. I simply don't have my wallet. I'm on my own in a city somewhere, and I can't find my money or my passport, not my driving licence – not even this,' he holds up a poker chip I know he uses as a totem. 'And the worst thing is that I know it hasn't been stolen, I just don't have any of those things.'

'That's not petty, I get what you mean.'

'As for secrets,' he leans a little closer with the air of someone conspiring, the smallest of smirks twitching at his lips. 'I'm a thief. I can't help it, but Saito's wallet is awfully inviting sometimes. It's his fault for leaving it where it's so accessible.'

'I mess up Arthur's notes sometimes.'

'I was starting to wonder who was doing that. Well, each to their own.'

'I wouldn't like to be you when you have to tell Saito,' I say. 'I'm sure he won't be too pleased.'

'I won't tell him. Just like I assume you're not planning to tell Arthur that you're the imp who comes along in the night and ruins his organisation.'

'Nope.'

'That's settled then,' Eames says. 'We've officially followed one of Cobb's orders for a change.'

* * *

It's a week before I can talk to Mr Saito. I catch him just before he's about to leave and, slightly intimated by him and also forcibly reminded to the fact that Eames has been stealing from him, it's quite difficult to bring up the topic of secrets and nightmares. In the end, I ask him outright.

'Sorry to ask – Cobb wants us to be open – but what's your worst nightmare?'

I sound like a telemarketer. Saito cocks an eyebrow; 'My wife.'

* * *

Cobb is difficult to talk to. Whenever he's on his own, he's always busy; he tends to wave me away imperiously, brow furrowed in concentration. But once, just once, I catch him at his desk with a notebook in front of him open at a blank page. I take this as an opportunity to speak to him. He doesn't seem too pleased when I bring up the topic of openness, instead choosing to flip through his notebook, frowning, looking irritated. I tell him about my recurring dream of the murderer, I admit my childish campaign of messing up Arthur's notes – and all Cobb does is look mildly annoyed and fiddle with his pen. I ask him if he has anything to tell me about.

'Nothing,' he says, voice clipped. 'Recurring nightmare? I always have dreams in which I'm falling. Everyone does. That's all.'

'What about your wife? I know you're-'

'Can't this wait, Ariadne?' he's already turned back to his notebook. 'I'm busy.'

* * *

Later that day I manage to talk to Arthur. I say later that day, but in actuality it is three in the morning. Meetings tend to run over on the days that we are all there. I'm exhausted, expected at a lecture the next day, and aching to get back to my apartment and sleep. The Metro will be shut, though; I'll have to walk.

'Don't be ridiculous,' Arthur tells me as I'm pulling my jacket on by the door. I notice that, in his hand, he's holding a pile of notes that look remarkably like the ones I shuffled out of their precise order around lunchtime.

'I wasn't.'

'You can't walk on your own at this hour. It's not safe. I'm going your way anyway.'

'I am capable of taking care of myself, you know.'

He gives me a look that suggests he'll walk me home no matter what I try to say. I shrug, and he turns away to gather his things. Eames nudges me as he passes, muttering, 'nice work on the notes.'

Ten minutes later I bring up the subject of openness. For a moment I think back to high school studying Russia in History, the word _Glasnost_ almost tripping off of my tongue instead. The fact that my mind flickers back to school so much reminds me of how young I am compared to the rest of the team. Arthur grins.

'I don't really have any secrets.'

'That's what everyone says,' I tell him. The more I think about it, the more I know they're all lying. I can't think that Eames' only secret would be occasional stealing from Mr Saito's wallet. I imagine there are other things, more serious things. Perhaps I don't want to know.

'Recurring nightmares? That's all anyone seems to talk about.'

'Being late,' he says in an instant. 'Isn't that strange? I used to always have nightmares that I was late.'

'Used to?'

'Well, yes. Cobb told you, didn't he?'

'Told me what?'

'After a certain amount of dream sharing, you lose your ability to dream naturally,' he says, before adding, with a smile, 'I haven't been late in four years.'

'I think he did tell me,' I say. 'I always have this nightmare that I'm about to be stabbed, but I can't move. I can't run away or anything.'

'That's a common one.'

'Do you come across this a lot?'

'Cobb always insists on openness, and we always seem to need new architects.'

His words have a strange effect on me. They sting, reminding me that, in time, I'll be asked to give up dreams to go back to reality. Arthur seems to notice this, turning away as if looking out for traffic, but the road is deserted. We don't talk again until we reach my apartment building.

'See you tomorrow morning,' he says.

'Bright and early.'

He lifts a hand in a brief wave and then continues down the road. I let myself in, thinking that, for that last comment, I might just hide his notes instead tomorrow.

* * *

I'm showing Arthur the way around the hotel when my murderer reappears.

We're on level three. I'm teaching him the pattern of the rooms. The lift chimes, distracting us both for a second, and then the doors slide open and a stocky man in a blue suit steps out, a gold chain at his neck glinting under the muted hotel lighting.

'Must be mine,' Arthur mutters. 'Sorry.'

This projection isn't his, though. It can't be. I look at my watch and see that it's three in the morning.

'Shall we go up to level four?' I say. Arthur makes for the lift, for the murderer, but I pull him back, indicating the stairs.

'The lift isn't finished,' I say; a flimsy excuse, but Arthur doesn't question it, simply follows me to the staircase. The murderer does too.

'How long do we have left?' I ask, trying to keep the panic from my voice. I can feel the man's eyes on my back, feel the breath trapping in my throat. I can't help it; I stop walking, stuck dead on the spot as if my legs are lead weights, unable to think properly. Silence falls. It's like Arthur and the hotel have disappeared; all that's left is me, statue-solid, and the breath of my murderer behind my back. Arthur says my name, then repeats it, says it again – but I can't move. I know that behind me, the murderer is pulling the knife from his pocket.

I expect to wake up any minute now. But I don't. I can almost hear the metal singing against the murderer's skin as he passes the blade from hand to hand, caressing it, wondering where he's going to stab me. The neck? The small of my back? He's wondering how he's going to take me away afterwards, how he's going to dispose of the murder weapon. He doesn't care that this is a dream. He's going to have his way with me at last.

Thankfully he never does. Arthur thinks fast, dreams a gun, aims it at my head. Moments later he's pulling the IV line from my wrist, offering me a glass of water, and I'm sitting, shaking, with my head in my hands, thankful for Cobb's policy of openness for the first time.

* * *

While Cobb looks away I take my chance. The lift is there, the grille pushed back, Cobb's words ringing into silence far behind me. I start to run, almost stumbling in my haste, arms splayed – his house has a certain smell to it, like all houses do; a stale smell, slightly airless. I run into the lift, slam the grille behind me, and punch a finger to the button labelled B. Basement.

I've learned, by now, that the very rules Cobb insists I live and dream by are the ones he breaks every night. To rely on drugs and machinery every night to keep your wife alive...is that any way to live?

A freight train thunders past, filling the lift with swirling wind and the stench of diesel and dust.

Cobb once told me that anything is possible in dreams. I can't help but doubt him.

The lift shudders to a halt. A hotel suite. Debris, destruction everywhere. I slide back the grille, stepping out into the room. A breeze plays at the window, curtains billowing to show a dark midnight sky beyond. I'm stepping forwards, forgetting where I am, when my foot knocks a champagne glass. It sings into silence. I see Cobb's wife sitting on the sofa, her head turned in my direction. Her Medusa stare freezes me to the spot.

'My name is-'

'I know who you are,' she says, standing, graceful, elegant. 'What are you doing here?'

What do I tell her? That she's nothing but her husband's guilt, a projection of his last memory of her? That somehow, I've taken it upon myself to break into his dreams? She's about as real as my murderer, about as real as Yusuf's chemical burns, Arthur's lateness, Eames' misplaced wallet, the wrath of Saito's wife. They're all shades of a real fear, mere shadows of something concrete.

But I can't say any of this. I can't think of a single word. Nothing except for openness, or perhaps secrecy, or perhaps a wish for Arthur to be there to dream up a gun to shoot me awake.

She circles me with a riddle. I can hardly hear what she's saying. I'm frozen.

'…how can it not matter where this train will take you?'

'Because we'll be together.'

Cobb is there. My instincts tell me to run, run for the lift, but I can't. I can only turn and look helplessly at Cobb, hear the sound of glass, the broken stem of a champagne flute in Mal's hand like the knife my murderer held.

Cobb pulls at my shoulders, shoves me into the lift, slams the grille – Mal throws herself at it, shaking the bars like an animal in a cage, screaming –

'You said we'd be together!'

Cobb is pale, faced drained of colour, like the stone I feel like my limbs are made of.

'You said we'd grow old together!'

The lift shakes into life, carrying us away from her snarl of a face, her clawing grip, Cobb's buried secrets. Nothing real. Only the shades of his fear.

* * *

'In a few months you'll be alright,' Arthur says, winding the IV lines back into the silver briefcase. 'No more murderers.'

'Murderer in the singular. There's only ever one.'

'You know what I mean.'

I'm almost tempted to tell him about the notes. But instead I smile, gathering together my papers to slip into my bag. 'I suppose that's the plus side of losing the ability to dream. You lose the nightmares too.'

* * *

That night I have my final nightmare. In about a week, I know I'll lose my dreams for good. It's not the murderer; he seems to have gone since the incident in the hotel, as if the fact that Arthur killed me first has destroyed my imaginary killer's resolve.

There is no murderer in my dream this time. There are no other people, in fact. Just the PASIV device, laid on a table before me, my bishop totem carefully set beside it. The IVs are unconnected, trailing loose across the floor, but the machine hums as if it's breathing, the four timers counting down in sync. Thirty seconds. I don't know why, but I know that I have to join the dream before those timers reach zero.

So I grab for the first IV line, pulling it with a shaking hand to my wrist, but it's been cut. So I move onto the next one; cut as well. And then the third; cut. The fourth is undamaged, my palms damp with sweat by this point, the timers reaching fifteen seconds. I try to stick the injection needles into my wrist, but I can't, my skin seems to be like stone. I'm a statue again. The timers reach zero, but nothing happens. The machine switches itself off, the countdowns turning blank. I reach for my bishop, but it's no longer there, and I'm alone in a blank room, knowing that I've missed something, that my last chance has somehow gone. A last chance for what? I don't know. I can hear breathing behind me, and the thin sound of metal passing from hand to hand.


End file.
